LUYỆN ĐỌC TIẾNG ANH QUA CÁC TÁC PHẨM VĂN HỌC –WUTHERING HEIGHTS (ĐỒI GIÓ HÚ) EMILY BRONTE CHAPTER 22 ppsx

WUTHERING HEIGHTS
(ĐỒI GIÓ HÚ)

EMILY BRONTE
CHAPTER 22

Summer drew to an end, and early autumn: it was past Michaelmas, but the
harvest was late that year, and a few of our fields were still uncleared. Mr.
Linton and his daughter would frequently walk out among the reapers; at the
carrying of the last sheaves they stayed till dusk, and the evening happening to
be chill and damp, my master caught a bad cold, that settled obstinately on his
lungs, and confined him indoors throughout the whole of the winter, nearly
without intermission.

Poor Cathy, frightened from her little romance, had been considerably sadder
and duller since its abandonment; and her father insisted on her reading less,
and taking more exercise. She had his companionship no longer; I esteemed it a
duty to supply its lack, as much as possible, with mine: an inefficient substitute;
for I could only spare two or three hours, from my numerous diurnal
occupations, to follow her footsteps, and then my society was obviously less
desirable than his.

On an afternoon in October, or the beginning of November - a fresh watery
afternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling with moist, withered leaves,
and the cold blue sky was half hidden by clouds - dark grey streamers, rapidly
mounting from the west, and boding abundant rain - I requested my young lady
to forego her ramble, because I was certain of showers. She refused; and I
unwillingly donned a cloak, and took my umbrella to accompany her on a stroll
to the bottom of the park: a formal walk which she generally affected if low-
spirited - and that she invariably was when Mr. Edgar had been worse than
ordinary, a thing never known from his confession, but guessed both by her and

me from his increased silence and the melancholy of his countenance. She went
sadly on: there was no running or bounding now, though the chill wind might
well have tempted her to race. And often, from the side of my eye, I could
detect her raising a hand, and brushing something off her cheek. I gazed round
for a means of diverting her thoughts. On one side of the road rose a high, rough
bank, where hazels and stunted oaks, with their roots half exposed, held
uncertain tenure: the soil was too loose for the latter; and strong winds had
blown some nearly horizontal. In summer Miss Catherine delighted to climb
along these trunks, and sit in the branches, swinging twenty feet above the
ground; and I, pleased with her agility and her light, childish heart, still
considered it proper to scold every time I caught her at such an elevation, but so
that she knew there was no necessity for descending. From dinner to tea she
would lie in her breeze-rocked cradle, doing nothing except singing old songs -
my nursery lore - to herself, or watching the birds, joint tenants, feed and entice
their young ones to fly: or nestling with closed lids, half thinking, half
dreaming, happier than words can express.

'Look, Miss!' I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of one twisted tree.
'Winter is not here yet. There's a little flower up yonder, the last bud from the
multitude of bluebells that clouded those turf steps in July with a lilac mist. Will
you clamber up, and pluck it to show to papa?' Cathy stared a long time at the
lonely blossom trembling in its earthy shelter, and replied, at length - 'No, I'll
not touch it: but it looks melancholy, does it not, Ellen?'

'Yes,' I observed, 'about as starved and suckless as you your cheeks are
bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You're so low, I daresay I shall
keep up with you.'

'No,' she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals to muse
over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus spreading its bright

orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever and anon, her hand was
lifted to her averted face.

'Catherine, why are you crying, love?' I asked, approaching and putting my arm
over her shoulder. 'You mustn't cry because papa has a cold; be thankful it is
nothing worse.'

She now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was stifled by sobs.

'Oh, it will be something worse,' she said. 'And what shall I do when papa and
you leave me, and I am by myself? I can't forget your words, Ellen; they are
always in my ear. How life will be changed, how dreary the world will be, when
papa and you are dead.'

'None can tell whether you won't die before us,' I replied. 'It's wrong to
anticipate evil. We'll hope there are years and years to come before any of us
go: master is young, and I am strong, and hardly forty-five. My mother lived till
eighty, a canty dame to the last. And suppose Mr. Linton I were spared till he
saw sixty, that would be more years than you have counted, Miss. And would it
not be foolish to mourn a calamity above twenty years beforehand?'

'But Aunt Isabella was younger than papa,' she remarked, gazing up with timid
hope to seek further consolation.

'Aunt Isabella had not you and me to nurse her,' I replied. 'She wasn't as happy
as Master: she hadn't as much to live for. All you need do, is to wait well on
your father, and cheer him by letting him see you cheerful; and avoid giving
him anxiety on any subject: mind that, Cathy! I'll not disguise but you might kill
him if you were wild and reckless, and cherished a foolish, fanciful affection for
the son of a person who would be glad to have him in his grave; and allowed

him to discover that you fretted over the separation he has judged it expedient to
make.'

'I fret about nothing on earth except papa's illness,' answered my companion. 'I
care for nothing in comparison with papa. And I'll never - never - oh, never,
while I have my senses, do an act or say a word to vex him. I love him better
than myself, Ellen; and I know it by this: I pray every night that I may live after
him; because I would rather be miserable than that he should be: that proves I
love him better than myself.'

'Good words,' I replied. 'But deeds must prove it also; and after he is well,
remember you don't forget resolutions formed in the hour of fear.'

As we talked, we neared a door that opened on the road; and my young lady,
lightening into sunshine again, climbed up and seated herself on the top of the
wall, reaching over to gather some hips that bloomed scarlet on the summit
branches of the wild-rose trees shadowing the highway side: the lower fruit had
disappeared, but only birds could touch the upper, except from Cathy's present
station. In stretching to pull them, her hat fell off; and as the door was locked,
she proposed scrambling down to recover it. I bid her be cautious lest she got a
fall, and she nimbly disappeared. But the return was no such easy matter: the
stones were smooth and neatly cemented, and the rose-bushes and black-berry
stragglers could yield no assistance in re-ascending. I, like a fool, didn't
recollect that, till I heard her laughing and exclaiming - 'Ellen! you'll have to
fetch the key, or else I must run round to the porter's lodge. I can't scale the
ramparts on this side!'

'Stay where you are,' I answered; 'I have my bundle of keys in my pocket:
perhaps I may manage to open it; if not, I'll go.'

Catherine amused herself with dancing to and fro before the door, while I tried
all the large keys in succession. I had applied the last, and found that none
would do; so, repeating my desire that she would remain there, I was about to
hurry home as fast as I could, when an approaching sound arrested me. It was
the trot of a horse; Cathy's dance stopped also.

'Who is that?' I whispered.

'Ellen, I wish you could open the door,' whispered back my companion,
anxiously.

'Ho, Miss Linton!' cried a deep voice (the rider's), 'I'm glad to meet you. Don't
be in haste to enter, for I have an explanation to ask and obtain.'

'I sha'n't speak to you, Mr. Heathcliff,' answered Catherine. 'Papa says you are a
wicked man, and you hate both him and me; and Ellen says the same.'

'That is nothing to the purpose,' said Heathcliff. (He it was.) 'I don't hate my son,
I suppose; and it is concerning him that I demand your attention. Yes; you have
cause to blush. Two or three months since, were you not in the habit of writing
to Linton? making love in play, eh? You deserved, both of you, flogging for
that! You especially, the elder; and less sensitive, as it turns out. I've got your
letters, and if you give me any pertness I'll send them to your father. I presume
you grew weary of the amusement and dropped it, didn't you? Well, you
dropped Linton with it into a Slough of Despond. He was in earnest: in love,
really. As true as I live, he's dying for you; breaking his heart at your fickleness:
not figuratively, but actually. Though Hareton has made him a standing jest for
six weeks, and I have used more serious measures, and attempted to frighten
him out of his idiocy, he gets worse daily; and he'll be under the sod before
summer, unless you restore him!'

'How can you lie so glaringly to the poor child?' I called from the inside. 'Pray
ride on! How can you deliberately get up such paltry falsehoods? Miss Cathy,
I'll knock the lock off with a stone: you won't believe that vile nonsense. You
can feel in yourself it is impossible that a person should die for love of a
stranger.'

'I was not aware there were eavesdroppers,' muttered the detected villain.
'Worthy Mrs. Dean, I like you, but I don't like your double-dealing,' he added
aloud. 'How could you lie so glaringly as to affirm I hated the "poor child"? and
invent bugbear stories to terrify her from my door-stones? Catherine Linton (the
very name warms me), my bonny lass, I shall be from home all this week; go
and see if have not spoken truth: do, there's a darling! Just imagine your father
in my place, and Linton in yours; then think how you would value your careless
lover if he refused to stir a step to comfort you, when your father himself
entreated him; and don't, from pure stupidity, fall into the same error. I swear,
on my salvation, he's going to his grave, and none but you can save him!'

The lock gave way and I issued out.

'I swear Linton is dying,' repeated Heathcliff, looking hard at me. 'And grief and
disappointment are hastening his death. Nelly, if you won't let her go, you can
walk over yourself. But I shall not return till this time next week; and I think
your master himself would scarcely object to her visiting her cousin.'

'Come in,' said I, taking Cathy by the arm and half forcing her to re-enter; for
she lingered, viewing with troubled eyes the features of the speaker, too stern to
express his inward deceit.

He pushed his horse close, and, bending down, observed - 'Miss Catherine, I'll

own to you that I have little patience with Linton; and Hareton and Joseph have
less. I'll own that he's with a harsh set. He pines for kindness, as well as love;
and a kind word from you would be his best medicine. Don't mind Mrs. Dean's
cruel cautions; but be generous, and contrive to see him. He dreams of you day
and night, and cannot be persuaded that you don't hate him, since you neither
write nor call.'

I closed the door, and rolled a stone to assist the loosened lock in holding it; and
spreading my umbrella, I drew my charge underneath: for the rain began to
drive through the moaning branches of the trees, and warned us to avoid delay.
Our hurry prevented any comment on the encounter with Heathcliff, as we
stretched towards home; but I divined instinctively that Catherine's heart was
clouded now in double darkness. Her features were so sad, they did not seem
hers: she evidently regarded what she had heard as every syllable true.

The master had retired to rest before we came in. Cathy stole to his room to
inquire how he was; he had fallen asleep. She returned, and asked me to sit with
her in the library. We took our tea together; and afterwards she lay down on the
rug, and told me not to talk, for she was weary. I got a book, and pretended to
read. As soon as she supposed me absorbed in my occupation, she
recommenced her silent weeping: it appeared, at present, her favourite
diversion. I suffered her to enjoy it a while; then I expostulated: deriding and
ridiculing all Mr. Heathcliff's assertions about his son, as if I were certain she
would coincide. Alas! I hadn't skill to counteract the effect his account had
produced: it was just what he intended.

'You may be right, Ellen,' she answered; 'but I shall never feel at ease till I
know. And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I don't write, and convince
him that I shall not change.'

What use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity? We parted
that night - hostile; but next day beheld me on the road to Wuthering Heights,
by the side of my wilful young mistress's pony. I couldn't bear to witness her
sorrow: to see her pale, dejected countenance, and heavy eyes: and I yielded, in
the faint hope that Linton himself might prove, by his reception of us, how little
of the tale was founded on fact.